The First Time We Met: The Oxford Blue Series #1 Read online

  ‘I’ll be OK. It’s not far to college.’

  ‘With a sprained ankle?’

  ‘I think it’s just twisted.’ I grab him for support as I try to place my sole on the sidewalk and half collapse.

  ‘If you’re hell bent on limping back to college, at least let me strap it up for you.’

  ‘Really, I’m …’

  He raises both eyebrows, and I realize I’ve gripped his arm so tightly, there are nail marks.

  ‘Thanks, but how are we going to get back to Wyckham?’ I have visions of us arriving in the Lodge like we’ve been tied together on some freshers’ pub crawl.

  ‘We’re not going back to Wyckham. I live here.’ I follow his finger to a house across the street, the centre of an elegant stone-built terrace that I took for a university building.

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘Come inside and let’s take a look at you.’

  From the kitchen across the hall, there are dull thuds as drawers open and close. I’m lying on Alexander’s sofa, wearing Alexander’s rugby shirt, with my injured foot propped up on Alexander’s silk cushion. After I’d limped up the steps on his arm, he left me in the sitting room with a bag of frozen peas round my ankle while he fetched some tape.

  As I sip the iced water he brought me, I hear the chirrup of a cell phone and his deep voice answering ‘Hunt’. Even though it’s wrong, I strain my ears to hear what he’s saying, but the kitchen door slams.

  So this is Alexander Hunt’s lair and I have to admit it looks remarkably civilized for a caveman’s. Of course, he has to live somewhere, but I’d assumed it would be at Wyckham. Is this his place or rented? If he’s only here for a year doing his master’s, I guess it’s rented? Judging by the cornice mouldings, picture rails and ornate ceiling roses, the house is mid- to late-Victorian. The decor is a mix of contemporary – all beech wood and plain lines, though nothing too self-consciously cool – combined with funky rugs on the bare boards. There’s an eclectic mix of modern prints on the walls, but nothing stand-out, and no family photos from what I can see from my sofa, so I assume it’s not his own place, or definitely not his own stuff.

  It’s still his home, though, and I’m alone with him in it.

  ‘Sorry about that. I knew I had some tape somewhere …’

  The glass is halfway to my lips as he enters the room. Now it’s his turn to pause as we stare at each other across the room. In his hands are a pair of scissors and some blue sticky tape. My throat dries up. Now that I’m not in agony, my senses have space and time to react to him properly. He has on chinos, a shirt with the sleeves rolled back and shiny shoes, all of which fit him like they were made for him, which, now I know his background, they probably were.

  He is even taller than I remember, six-two at least, and lean yet built. If he’s in the army, then of course he’s going to be fit, but, still, he looks hot.

  He also recovers faster than I do.

  ‘May I?’ he asks in that clipped voice that’s a notch up from being rude. Am I totally misreading the signals here or is there static crackling between us as he sits on the end of the sofa, without waiting for my reply.

  He lifts my foot from the cushion and into his lap. I cringe at the mud smear and wet patch on his silk cushion and am horribly conscious of my bare legs.

  ‘I’m sorry, I meant to take off my Nikes.’

  ‘I’ll do it.’ His glance is brief, his voice curt and the tension between us is as taut as a high wire. Does he regret asking me inside? Does he feel the sparks arcing between us – or from me to him? Does he want to jump off the sofa and run away, like I do, because he’s so frightened of what might happen and how he might feel if it does?

  He’s unlaced my shoe and he’s gently easing it off my foot. Despite his care, my foot is sore, but I’m too transfixed by the strong fingers encircling my ankle to mind. His nails are short, square and clean, but his fingers are a little calloused.

  ‘OK?’

  ‘Mmm.’ As he slides my sock over my foot, I am so glad I got a pedi before I left Washington.

  ‘This may hurt a bit.’

  ‘It’ll be – ow!’

  He glances up, his mouth tilting slightly, then resumes his exam of my foot as I try not to dig my nails too hard into the sofa cushion. Underlying the pain, I’m in heaven and hell as his fingertips prod my sole and swollen joint.

  ‘Ideally, you should keep the ice on it for half an hour before I strap it, but this should keep it more stable and comfortable.’

  Half an hour. In here with him? I’ll self-combust.

  He holds up the tape. ‘This is vet tape. We use it for the horses, but there’s nothing like it for sports injuries.’

  OK. I suppose I can cope with being treated like a pony in this instance. He rolls the vet tape round my lower calf and the ball of my foot. I find it hard to tear my eyes away from his fingers as he does it, then I become conscious that his hands have come to rest on my ankle.

  ‘Do you do a lot of running?’ he asks.

  ‘Does it look like it?’ My attempt at Brit self-deprecation was a bad idea because he has a wicked gleam in his eye as he secures the tape.

  ‘I won’t answer that.’

  ‘I run a little at home, to keep fit but mainly to de-stress,’ I say, shifting my bottom on the sofa. Suddenly, I can’t keep still.

  He tears off the tape and he could move away now that his job is done. Instead, he strokes the blade of my foot almost idly and his mouth quirks in a smile. ‘And are you stressed now?’

  The touch of those strong fingers up and down my foot is more erotic than sex itself and he asks me if I’m stressed?

  ‘Um … No, I’m doing just fine.’

  He looks at me intensely, as if he’s daring me to glance away first. ‘Are you sure because you seem a little flustered. Maybe it’s delayed shock. You did hit the ground very hard back there.’

  I try not to gasp as he probes my ankle, gently but firmly.

  ‘Can you feel that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ He massages the sole of my foot. ‘I’m only checking that you’ve still got feeling down there, of course.’

  ‘Trust me, I can feel it.’ I’m unable to tear my eyes away from that arrogantly handsome face. He runs his fingers lightly along my sole. I don’t believe in reflexology but something definitely connected a lot higher up just then.

  ‘I had my first day of classes today,’ I blurt out, frantically trying to change the subject.

  ‘And how was that for you?’ His mouth twitches into a smile as I brace my hands on the sofa cushion.

  ‘Pretty full-on, but amazing … They sure throw you in at the deep end here …’

  His eyes are still on mine as his hands move to my calf, kneading the sore muscle. I am struggling not to take off into orbit from the sofa.

  He strokes my calf gently with his fingertips. ‘And do you find yourself out of your depth often?’

  ‘I … um … er …’ I can’t think of a single answer to that question. ‘I had to decide on my specialist area,’ I say in desperation. He rests my foot on the cushion again and gives me the Alexander Hunt deep penetrating gaze. ‘Really? And what is your specialist area, Lauren?’

  Please. Do not say my name. Hearing those syllables in that cut-glass accent, no matter how much I’ve scorned his aristocratic credentials, is driving me insane. ‘I … um … it’s called Women, Art and Culture in Early Modern Europe.’

  He raises his eyebrows. ‘Really? That must be very stimulating.’

  His fingertips skate over the tape to where my flesh is bare. I hitch a breath as they make little circles on my shin. This is not a necessary part of the treatment. This is beyond the call of duty.

  ‘More than you could ever imagine …’ My head drifts back against the sofa arm and I can’t help but slip a little lower down the couch.

  His hand glides over my knee and stops in the middle of my thigh. His palm is warm and a little rough. I c
an’t help shifting my hips as his hand moves higher to the skin below the hem of my shorts. I have no need of his shirt now, the temperature seems to have risen by ten degrees in a few minutes.

  ‘How about this?’ His voice is lower, as if he senses the deep, matching sensation spreading through my core.

  ‘That’s … ah … very … stimulating too.’

  ‘Purely in an intellectual way, of course?’

  Now I am glad of his rugby shirt because my nipples are prodding my tank top.

  ‘Of course …’

  ‘How about this, then?’ There’s a raw edge to his tone as he slips his fingers under the edge of my running shorts. I try not to moan out loud as he slides his hand ever higher, playing with the lace of my panties. Any second now, I know he will slip his finger under the edge of them. With my eyes closed, I slide even further down the leather sofa until my bottom butts against the solidity of his thighs.

  ‘Alexander, please …’ Hell, why am I saying ‘please’!

  He has moved without me realizing and is now kneeling beside the sofa with me in his arms. Every nerve is alive and screaming as his lips meet mine, gently at first then, as I respond, he claims my mouth with a fierceness that wipes away any resistance I had.

  His tongue pushes inside my mouth, exploring, and I devour him. I want him inside my mouth, inside me. The muscles around his spine and shoulder blades are firm through the cotton of his shirt. He is solidity, uncompromising, maddening.

  Sparks of desire shoot through me and I buck my hips upwards. He pushes his hand inside the rugby shirt and under my tank, flattening his palm against my abdomen. His fingers brand my skin, and I start to pull his shirt from the waistband of his jeans. Half-crazed with lust, I want to have his skin on mine and I want it now.

  The phone rings from the other side of the room and I tense. Alexander presses on, pulling aside my sports bra to close his fingers gently around my breast.

  ‘Wait!’

  ‘What for?’

  I can’t answer him because I can’t answer myself. Why do I hesitate?

  ‘Your phone …’

  ‘Ignore it.’ His voice is gravelly and impatient, but all I can think of is the door slamming as he took the other call. A call he didn’t want me to hear, a call I shouldn’t have heard because I shouldn’t be in his house, on his sofa with his hands all over my body. He glances over at the phone on the side table, buzzing like an angry swarm of wasps, and his eyes cloud with anger and frustration.

  ‘You should answer it. It might be someone important.’

  ‘I don’t care. They can wait.’

  Through my clothes, my hand closes over his. ‘Like everyone does for Alexander Hunt?’

  The phone sounds even louder to me now.

  He pulls his hand from under my top and swears under his breath. ‘Will you go away?’

  ‘What? Your caller or me?’

  ‘I think you know what I mean.’

  ‘Yes, I think I do.’

  He rakes a hand through his hair in frustration and gets up. He towers over me as I shuffle up the sofa and swing my legs on to the rug. I’m left asking myself, did that really happen?

  ‘We both know what we want so why wait? At least I thought I knew what you wanted, but clearly I’m wrong.’

  ‘I got here three days ago, I’ve only met you a few times so if you were expecting me to leap into bed with you …’

  He blows out a tiny breath of derision. ‘I hardly think you’re in a position to leap anywhere right now.’

  I watch him struggle to hide his irritation under a veneer of politeness, but it’s too late. I now wish I’d never run past his house or even heard of him. I’m damned if I’m going to stay here any longer explaining why I won’t have sex with any man who snaps his fingers and expects me to fall at his feet. Actually, I did fall at his feet … But I’m not going to dance to his tune, no matter how much I want his body and I’m definitely not naive enough to mistake the chemistry between us as anything other than lust.

  ‘Maybe not, but I can still walk out of here and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.’

  He nods. ‘Of course. I’ll get the car and drive you back to college.’

  Gritting my teeth, I manage to stand on my injured ankle. ‘Don’t trouble yourself. I can walk.’

  ‘If you think I’m going to stand and watch you hobbling down the street, you’re mistaken. Wait here.’

  ‘No, you wait!’

  Ignoring me, he marches out of the sitting room. In the past few minutes we’ve gone from scorching the sofa to freezing it solid.

  Well, Immy told me he’s a heartbreaker and I already know he’s ruthless and treads on anyone who gets in his way. No matter how much my body tells me I want him, I’d need to know a lot more about Alexander Hunt before I’d even think of jumping into his bed. Actually, no, it’s far better to know nothing about him at all and keep a wide berth.

  There’s a rattle from the hall as the front door opens. I pick up my iPod from the side table where he left it.

  He stands in the doorframe to the hallway, keys in his hand. ‘Ready?’

  With a nod that’s as curt as his ‘ready’, I hop towards him and, without asking me, he takes my arm to help me down the steps.

  Five minutes later, the Range Rover stops outside the front of Wyckham. Our conversation during the drive has been non-existent, the atmosphere brittle with confusion and frustration on both sides. Ignoring the scowls and toots from other road users, Alexander double parks at the entrance. In seconds he is at the passenger door with his hand out.

  ‘Be careful,’ he says, helping me climb down to the sidewalk. I take his hand for the minimum time possible.

  ‘Thanks.’ Then, ‘What about your shirt?’ I ask, now I’m safely back on terra firma.

  ‘Please, keep it.’

  ‘I’ll get it laundered and bring it back.’

  His mouth twitches proudly. ‘That won’t be necessary.’

  ‘I know it’s not necessary, but I’d like to do it all the same.’

  He shrugs. ‘As you wish.’

  ‘I do.’ I am surprised at the firmness of my voice and maybe Alexander is too. Horns blast from the street behind us and his eyes narrow in irritation. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘I know.’

  Yet he does not go. He hovers by the door, his blue eyes intent on mine, and my body betrays every rational thought I had about ignoring him. Despite everything that has passed between us and all my better judgement, I still want to feel his naked body next to mine. And damn it but I’m compelled to break the silence, to explain myself and I have no idea why.

  ‘Look, Alexander, I don’t sleep with a guy because he snaps his fingers. If you knew me better, you’d realize that.’

  ‘I’ve never met anyone like you before.’

  The look he gives me is icy and fiery all at once. It burns into me and I don’t know how to reply or whether I want to believe what he just told me or not. I want to believe it a lot – and that’s exactly why I won’t.

  ‘I should go now.’

  ‘I’ll call you.’

  ‘Sure you will,’ I mutter, and he can make of that what he likes. I don’t even know if he heard it because he’s dashed round the front of the car and is about to climb into the driver’s seat, ignoring the queue of shouting, hooting drivers. In a few seconds, he executes a U-turn into the traffic and is gone.

  Despite his shirt, I shiver as I limp through the Lodge and drag my aching body up the three flights to my room. Now that the adrenaline and endorphins have ebbed away, my bumps and bruises have begun to throb and I’m suddenly as exhausted as if I’d run a marathon. And the first thing I do when I close the door on the world is to rip off his top and toss it into the darkest corner of my room.

  Chapter Six

  Three days later Alexander’s shirt lies in the same place. He hasn’t called, of course, and I’m annoyed that I even entertained the possibility that he ever would. The f
act that he didn’t take my number is no excuse. He could have got it from Rupert or Immy, but he hasn’t, and I’m not going to waste another second thinking about him. There are way too many other interesting places to visit, things to do – and people to meet – in Oxford, to spend my time on Alexander Hunt.

  However.

  No matter how hard I try, in my fantasies – and there have been some since Tuesday – I took that leap into Alexander’s bed.

  Enough. I’ve not even told Immy what happened between Alexander and me – not that anything did happen. It’s not that I don’t trust her to be discreet, I do. It’s more that I can’t cope with the interrogation that would follow and the fact that she’d make far more of our brief encounter than it deserves.

  I’ve seen her every day after my classes, and she’s introduced me to some more of Oxford’s institutions: dinner at Brown’s and cocktails in the Duke of Cambridge with its legendary hot bar staff, not that I noticed them much. We were also meant to squeeze in a game of tennis on the college courts this afternoon, but my ankle is still too sore.

  Somehow, Friday evening has come round and we’re sitting in a dark corner of the Eagle and Child in St Giles – another Oxford institution and the place where Tolkien and C. S. Lewis used to meet and read out their works. I feel as surreal as Alice in Wonderland or Lucy when she found herself in Narnia.

  We’re celebrating because Immy has scraped through her Collections and is free to complete her final year. She’s returning from the bar, but instead of our drinks she waggles her phone, a grin on her face.

  ‘You are so not going to believe this.’

  For a second, I think she’s going to say that her call was from Alexander, but why would that be? There have now been a whole three days of nothing between us, despite his remark about calling me. I could curse myself for even giving him a second thought and I’m mad that I checked my pigeonhole this morning to see if he’d decided to go the snail-mail route and drop a note in there. It seemed ironic – and also a warning – that all I found was a bunch of circulars about the Speculative Fiction Society (scary), a badger cull (horrible) and some evangelical group warning me about the dangers of promiscuous sex (hilarious). There was also an invite to some upcoming USSoc grad events, which could provide an interesting contrast to Rupert and his Hooray Henry friends.